


Terrifying Tolkien Week fics

by RaisingCaiin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Annatar being an utter creep, Annatar being an utter creep in another country, Drabbles, Ficlets, Gen, Gore, Mistaken Identity, OCs - Freeform, Orcs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Torture, and again, except the ones that run away from me, mythmaking, sadistic POV, verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8399275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/pseuds/RaisingCaiin
Summary: fics posted to tumblr for #terrifyingtolkien week 2016(also, in case anyone was wondering why my WIPs haven't been updated for a bit)





	1. prompt 1: death and the maiden

i.

Gold! would the bards sing, in ages to come: gold was the hair of the fair Nimrodel! But this was long after: such tales, and such lies.

Not the gold, no, not that: but the name, Nimrodel.

For no name had her forest, in after-years Lorien: no name had the stream. Gold shone the leaves, and gold her their child, and no name had she.

Starry the sky shone, and sweet sang the river! Sweet sang the river, away to the Sea, and it sang with the maiden the song of their joy. 

 

ii.

But darkness came, soon; the Foul One returning, to lands He once tainted.

And gold still the forest shone, but elsewhere the world fell to shadow and evil, to taint and decay. Then the gods came, in all of their legions innumerable, and the good and the bad and the land and the stars – they swept all away.

And gold stood the forest, but flame tinged the leaves; and bone clicked on stone and washed smooth down the stream. Soft trembled the leaves, and perplexed left their child, and no name had she for the fear in her heart.

Cloudy the sky grew, and cold blew the wind! Odd murmured the river, away to the Sea, and it seemed to the maiden her old friend hid secrets among its new bones.

 

iii.

Amroth the Sinda now styled himself King; King of the Golden Wood, Lórien his realm! 

And gold-tinged the forest was, other hues now its leaves; grey with ash, brown with stain, green with earthy defects. And the Sinda folk hunted its birds and its stags, and their talan established amongst its proud boughs.

Fires rose, burning, for heat and for light; their fuel the mallorn. The maiden slipped further away through the trees, a dryad unclothed save for blossom and hair. A spirit, they deemed her: ill-omened, self-doomed.

Stormy the clouds loomed, and threatened the rains! Sad sobbed the river, away to the Sea, and its waters ran dark with the blood of the hunt.

 

iv.

Amroth the Sinda rode out on the chase, his hounds at his side and his court in the rear. An ivory hart, just reached his full growth, was agreed as both quarry and prize.

Gold glowed the forest, the old wood of Lorien; gold near as bright as the gold of their spurs, and the trim of their cloaks, and the tips of their spears! Gold tinged anew with the red of hart’s blood, as the animal fell; gold bloodied with footprints as the maiden stepped out, defying the tormentors.

Amroth the Sinda delighted in her: a prize fairer won, fairer far, than the slow-dying beast. To his mount her he tied; to his city conveyed her, his new bride.

Foreboding the wind cried, ill whispered the stones! Soft hushed the river, away to the Sea, and its waters sang lonely without the maid’s tunes.

 

v.

The maid suffered no slippers, nor her hair to be bound. Cloaks she tore, tunics dropped, laces broke; pearls outflung.

Spirit! cried Amroth, well-pleased with her fire. Naked let her remain; she still pleases that way! When no words of his tongue could yet garner reply, still louder he laughed. Four warriors he summoned; bid them hold the hind down.

Gold likely gleamed some small part of the forest; gold where no eye had yet lain profane beam. But in greys for the most – white with fume, black with rot – lay its leaves and its branches and boughs.

Starless the sky must be, with such mantled clouds! And swiftly the river ran, down to the Sea; pure and clean ran its waters, free of blood and of ill.  

 

vi.

Balrog! the Sinda cried: a fire-demon of old! All of Hadhodrond burned, and the forest was next!

Flee, to the harbors! ordered Amroth the Sinda; flee, lest we all be burnt with the Naugs! Away broke the maid, amidst the turmoil; down she ran, down and down, to her old friend the stream. Its waters embraced her, and soothed bloodied feet.

My prize! Amroth raged. I leave not without her! And forth went his men, the gold forest to beat and to tramp and to fire; but the king’s prize was not to be found.

Laced was the sky, laced with lightning and storm: silver the river! And whistling that river ran, down to the Sea, and it music returned, and its waters were deep.  

 

vii.

Nimrodel Golden-hair: maid of grotto, of Lórien, of Amroth the Fair! How she died, none can say; save they say t’was too soon.

Her beloved, he mourned her, the tales haste to end; he delayed taking ship, and leaped into the sea. Fickle Nimrodel, though, came not and but spurned him; thus died Amroth the Fair. Ai, inconstant maidenhood; what else need be said?

Clean runs the river, though; close loom the trees. Who among us can number the graves it remembers; who among us can count all the bones it collects? But a clean stream it is; a strong border to Lórien, that no evil defiles.

Or so say the bards, and who would hear otherwise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misc. language notes:  
> \- Hadhodrond (S. for Khazad-dûm or Moria)


	2. prompt 2: there was a strangeness in the horn / a wildness in the cry / the power of devilry forlorn / exulting bloodily

“Whassat?”

Verzagh looked up to see what the recruit was pointing at.  He looked away again, right quick, soon as he realized _what_ he was looking at.

“It’s nothin’. Don’t – stop _lookin_ ’ at it, fool grub, keep _movin’_!”

The recruit trotted after him, matching his quickened pace after only a few steps.

“Whys’it bad t’ look at? Looked kind of – pretty.”

Verzagh shuddered. It only looked pretty if you hadn’t been there for the hours and hours that the Master had spent getting it to look that way. Usually, Verzagh liked the tortures that went for hours and hours: such nice noises, and sounds, and smells, and the Master was always in a good mood afterwards. After the long tortures, honest, hardly anybody died for at least an hour.

Not that time. Everyone around had died. Lucky Verzagh, he’d been sent on some errand just before It had ended.

“It’s haun’ed.”

The recruit looked at him stupidly as he fell into step. Verzagh amended:

“It’s bad luck. You look at It even a little too long, you die. You look at It much too long, the Master takes you up in t’ the City. And then you die.”

“Oh.” The recruit shut up for a minute. “So, you ever been up there?”

 “Do I look stoopid?” Seeing his companion draw breath to answer, Verzagh raised a hand. “Tip for you, since I’m in a generous mood t’day: just because I asks a question, doesn’t mean yer actually supposed to answer. It’s a, bloodywhatseecallit: a, a – a de-VICE, that’s it. Yer supposed to realize that there’s only one answer, and so no one has ter actually say it.”

“Clever,” the recruit murmured. Verzagh nodded in approval.  

“An’ the answer here is no. I ain’t been up there, you ain’t goin’ up there, no one’s goin’ up there; only visitor It gets is the Master.” As the recruit drew fool breath again, Verzagh snapped: “No, t’ whatever yer goin’ to ask next! C’mon, stir yer stumps, patrol ain’t goin’ t’ run itself!”

A soft wind tickled the back of Verzagh’s neck as they finally left the shadow of the Hill. He rubbed the skin there, irritably, but didn’t stop for even a moment. The light touch might’ve been the wind – probably was the wind, dammit – but it could’ve also been Its breath: Its last breath, even, you never knew. Verzagh wasn’t sticking around to find out, though.

~ ~ ~

Late at night, Lurgzh crept out of the barracks and stole out toward the Hill. New he might be to the ranks – he’d been just a grub when the War was on – but Lurgzh was going to get his glory, just everyone wait’n’see. And if getting his glory and his move up took some looking into the old sarge’s fool yabberings, well: that was easy, really it was.

The old skin-sac had drooled on about how scary that thing up on the hill was, but Lurgzh didn’t see nothing he needed to be scared of. Just a banner on a stick, blowin’ in the wind!

Something crunched and crackled underfoot as Lurzgh trotted up the patrol-path. Somewhere beyond the Hill, somewhere on the other side, was the City that the War had been fought for: someday he’d get the sarge to spill the secrets on that, too, and he’d brave the City itself. Why, maybe Lurgzh would even fight this stupid ol’ Master everyone was always on about – he couldn’t be that terrible, could he? Lurgzh could take him: he’d just killed his first Elf the other day, he had! It had squirmed and screamed when his spear had pulled pretty pink stomach-things out of its body: too bad it hadn’t lived much longer. Maybe there were more Elves in the City?

The Hill loomed ahead, and Lurgzh stopped, just for a minute. Even a Hill like this couldn’t have gotten taller at night, could it? Because it looked taller, and its shadow looked darker, and Lurgzh would’ve sworn that he heard noises: screams. Not actual, proper screams, the kind the old sarge liked: real quiet screams, almost not-real, going away and coming back like there was some not-fun battle being fought on top of the Hill.

Lurzgh – didn’t like it. Proper screams were far away and real sharp-like: they made you feel good, down low and deep down. Proper screams was how you knew the bosses were focused on other people and not on you; proper screams made your body tingly in parts and hot in others, and happy all over. These screams made Lurgzh – not scared, no, but realizing that he hadn’t looked over his shoulder in a while.

He was just deciding to back to barracks, and think of another way to get glory and maybe take the old sarge’s place, when he heard that there was crying, too.

That – that was really good. Lurgzh liked crying, everyone liked crying! And it stopped and started, yeah, but it was _there_ , actually there, in a way that the screams weren’t. Funny how you could hear both at the same time, though.

So Lurgzh kept walking. He stepped into the shadow of the Hill, and stopped for a minute – just to catch his breath, that’s all – and when nothing jumped out of the shadows, he continued on up the Hill itself.

When he got the top, Lurgzh was glad he’d decided to keep going. The horrible moon was everywhere, yes, but the banner, how much lovelier it looked up close! It had been made from the shape of an Elf, with the cross-pole stuck up through its anus and on out its throat. Lovely craftsmanship, that, Lurgzh noted: letting the head fall just slightly to the side, just enough that the sharp-tipped pole rose another foot or so, stained dark with blood, but not so far that you’d know the neck didn’t work anymore. And how nice it smelled: sweet with blood and sweat, with none of the sourness of rot. He’d hardly have guessed that it was dead at all!

And then the banner gurgled, breath whistling up past the spike in something like a sob.

Lurgzh stepped back so fast he near fell from the Hill. He liked crying, and all – who didn’t? – but this was just uncanny. Only living things, warm things, were supposed to cry!

“Tyelpe, darling, really,” said a voice from the shadows at the foot of the cross. Lurzgh shivered when a slim shape stepped forward, laying a gentle hand to the dangling feet and caressing one absently. “If only you’d told me, love, truly: none of this need have come to pass. But there is still hope, eh?”

Lurgzh goggled at the sheer impertinence of the Elf – touching one of its own kind, probably put here as a warning! With a low growl, he stalked forward. He would have that sweet banner for himself, that he would, no Elves allowed t’ touch it – see how sarge liked him then!

“I will not ride out yet,” Lurgzh heard the figure say, as he slipped closer still. “Let your little kinsmen tire themselves and their forces, marching out to meet me here. There is time, dearheart! Tell me where the Rings are, and this will be but a dream. I dread how long the months may seem to you, otherwise.”

When Lurgzh lunged, his claws clicked together: empty, catching nothing but shadows. Above him the banner rippled and shook; from behind him, a hand came lightly to rest on his shoulder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: C.S. Lewis, discussing his _Screwtape Letters_ , once wrote that it was much easier for a human being to write as a devil than as an angel. (of course I can't find the quote now). Which may or may not offer any insight into why I always go back to Sauron in the end. I dunno.


	3. prompt 3: fight or flight

“You have been granted an audience,” the messenger tells Míriel.

She had not requested an audience. She has not been permitted to leave her chamber for weeks.  

“I will attend upon my lord at my earliest convenience,” she replies.

He bows. It is not the gesture of respect that such a genuflection would have been, once: it is the move of a man caught between one powerful player and one unknown. “You will attend upon my lord immediately.”

Míriel nods in return. It is not the regal gesture it would have been, once: it is the move of a women caught between a powerful player and his games. “I will attend upon him immediately.”

The messenger leaves.

Uriphêl is already laying out her finest robes: Míriel holds still and lets her maid array her. For all her bravado, both women know: one does not simply make the Zigûrun wait.

For all that she knows that, though, Míriel’s feet still itch with the urge to run.

“It is not so far to Rómenna, my lady,” Uriphêl whispers. Twenty leagues to the Faithful’s city: a hard day’s ride, nothing more. 

“It is not,” Míriel agrees softly.

They would never make it past the first gate of Armenelos.

The thought impels Míriel to a prayer she had repeated since her father’s death and the opening of her cousin’s long reign. _Eru Ilúvatar, Who art above us: hallowed Thy name! Bless us, Thy servants._

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It has been nine and thirty days since her husband sailed.

Nine and thirty days since Ar-Pharazôn mounted the golden throne nailed to the deck of his greatest warship and commanded that the trumpets be sounded: nine and thirty days since his great fleet, crimson-dyed and gold-sailed, began its ponderous crawl toward the havens of the West.

Nine and thirty days since great clouds shaped like eagles had begun to blot out the Sun as it sunk into its couching place.  

The Zigûrun hardly looks as though he has spent all those days in the temple, though. His robes are pristine and sweet-smelling as he beckons Míriel forward; his slow smile shines with all the ease of a man well-rested.

 “Ah, my lovely Ar-Zimraphel! Too long has it been since your lovely visage has graced this hallowed space.”

Míriel has not entered the temple since its commemoration so many years ago. She had balked at its purpose, still more at its sacrifices. And yet, here she now stood. A threat from the Zigûrun, be it ever so veiled, was far more serious than any threat from her husband, and besides: Míriel had ached to be anywhere else, after being trapped so long in her rooms.

Now that she is here, though, the chill of the temple makes her reconsider. The eternal fires never warm the temple of the Giver of Freedom; nothing burned in those fires lasts long enough.

The Zigûrun smiles at her, warm and welcoming, as though he knows the direction of her thoughts. Perhaps he does.

“I am pleased that you have come, though I only wish I had better news to offer.” He pauses as if to see whether she will ask his news, but Míriel keeps her head inclined. Let him think it respect: she might be impelled to stand here, but she does not choose to look at his sanctum of darkness.

“I fear that the fleet has encountered its first true challenge,” he says gravely. “It may even yet be lost.”

The thought of Pharazôn at battle with the gods of her father’s stories makes Míriel shiver. Little good will does she bear the man who stole her hand and her throne, but she does not like to contemplate whether she has become the kind of woman to wish him dead, the victim of the one enemy he has ever feared.

“Sad news indeed, my lord,” she tells the Zigûrun aloud. “Though if you knew the West would prove such a true challenge, I wonder that you guided my husband to that decision regardless.”

Somewhere behind her Uriphêl gasps at her temerity. Míriel fights the urge to lift her head, to wonder whether the Zigûrun is angered – to flee this wretched place and ride for Rómenna, damned be her chances.

The Zigûrun just laughs. He stands from his seat beside the great blood-stained altar and descends the steps to where she stands, head still bowed.

“I have missed that tongue,” he says cheerily. He comes to a stop before her: she can see his rich robes, ruby-red and gold-scrolled, where they brush at the floor. “Come, ‘Zimraphel: no need for such servility between us!”

His long fingers grip her chin and draw her head up.

Míriel’s mind races as her eyes are drawn upward. _Eru Ilúvatar, Thy kingdom come and Thy will be made known. Guide us, Thy servants!_

The Zigurun’s pale eyes scrutinize her face. She cannot fight his grip.

Two of his fingers, pointer and middle, stay beneath her chin. Two more, ring and final, curl back into his fist. One, the thumb, moves to stroke her cheek. “How, I wonder, could Pharazôn not see he held such a treasure in you, my dear?”

“Quite easily, my lord.” It would be best if Míriel did not answer, and she knows this, but the instinct to flee is rising, and the only less certain death she can imagine is in defying the creature before her.

“Indeed.” The Zigûrun leans forward, brows wrinkling slightly, as though he attempts to discern from whence such answers originate. His shining eyes trace all the shapes of her face: Míriel can feel their heat. That is her limit: she finally gives in to the urge to fight, to pull away.

His thumb darts from her cheek to bite into her chin. Between that and the two fingers below, he is quite strong enough to hold her still.

“Shhhh.” He soothes her as one would a mare, foaling for the first time. “Be at peace, little one! I seek not to harm you as that brute would.”

“I wonder,” she pants, still fighting to draw her face away, “that you would encourage him, then.”

If anything, his brow wrinkles further. “I only encouraged the King to worship the one true god, ‘Zimraphel. I never encouraged his preposterous treatment of you. Indeed, I advocated most strenuously on your behalf.”

“Lies,” Míriel breathes. Skin tears beneath the Zigûrun’s nails as she thrashes again. Uriphêl whimpers.

“No lies,” the Zigûrun promises. “Only concern that he did not love you as you deserved.” His face is still perilously close. Míriel cannot look into his eyes.

“I have long accepted that there was no love between my King Pharazôn and I, my lord, only his want.” She stills a moment, tiring; then, hoping his attention has slacked, jerks her head again. It only pains her neck: the Zigûrun’s fingers do not move.  “I grew used to being desired, and desired alone. I asked no more.”

“And if you were offered more?” the Zigûrun asks curiously. His head tilts, inquisitive: his strange eyes gleam. The movement has brought his face within reach of her own: warm, sweet-scented breath puffs against her lips.

Míriel would only need lean forward. Even further struggle would do it.

She does not.

“I have never needed more, my lord,” she says as calmly as she can manage.

This close, she can see how the skin about the Zigûrun’s eyes creases as he smiles that long, slow smile. This close, she can only jerk and shriek as he leans forward, instead, taking the kiss that she would not give.

It is soft, and chaste, and brief, but Míriel feels upon her mouth the squirm of maggots and the tiny prickling feet of flies.

She gasps and gasps, fighting for breath, when he finally releases his hold upon her. The Zigûrun watches with amusement as she raises a trembling hand to her lips, looking down to her fingers as if expecting them to come away red with blood or dark with grave-dirt.

His laughter follows her as she flees the temple, Uriphêl hobbling at her heels.

 “Ah, ‘Zimraphel: sweet queen of a sweeter people!” echoes behind them, even past the distance sound should carry into the noise and bustle of Armenelos. “Naïve child, to think that even something so simple as want might be applied to you!”

Míriel’s eyes are wet. Her face and mouth sting, and her fingers tingle. Her feet itch with the need to run, and so she does. She flies down the King’s Avenue, people parting with startled oaths and shocked cries to see their reclusive queen running like a madwoman.

She never does learn what news the Zigûrun had of her husband’s fleet. If it even was news, or anything beyond simple rumor.

A snatch of a prayer rings in her head in time with her slapping steps. _Eru Ilúvatar, give us this day our meat and our bread. Save us, Thy servants!_

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Míriel stops at the root of the Meneltarma, the great mountain at whose feet Armenelos was built. Alone she sits, feet burrowing into the dirt and arms wrapped about her body, until Uriphêl finally finds her.

“Lady. . .” Her maid’s breath comes in wheezes. Uriphêl was half-crippled by a fall some years past:  they have wondered, together, if it was a punishment for her loyalty to Míriel. She had fallen behind her queen’s mad flight long before.

“We should- return,” Uriphêl manages to say. She does not sit in her lady’s presence, though Míriel can see her legs tremble beneath her. “To- the palace. A storm- rises. In the west.”

“I care not,” Míriel says, as steadily as her voice is able. Her head rises not from the fences of her arms.

Uriphêl wheezes above her. “Please- my queen. The clouds- are too dark- for a normal storm. Great rains- will this bring- great waves. Please- let us take shelter.”

It is blasphemous, Míriel knows, and yet the thought comes from her mouth all the same. “Let us shelter here.”

She does not have to look up to imagine the doubt that must cross her loyal maid’s face. “Lady. There is- nowhere to shelter?”

Some madness takes hold of Míriel then. She has asked so little of God, and received so little in return. What great trouble would this be?

“Let us shelter in the Hallow.” The Hallow of Eru atop the Meneltarma is open, unroofed, but Míriel will go no more into the golden trap of Armenelos and its sorcerer-lord.

From over the Sea in the West rings a great bray of trumpets. From nearer, in Armenelos, rings the first delighted laugh of the Zigûrun.

Míriel stands. “Let us go. Now.”

The Meneltarma is steep. Its paths are paved with stone, but Míriel is shoeless. She cannot climb quickly. Uriphêl struggles, panting, behind her.

From over the Sea, not the West but much closer, comes a great rumble of thunder. But it does not end, and it does not fade: it draws closer and louder, and Uriphêl cries out with fear. Míriel does not look back to see what has frightened her maid. Still they climb.

 “Lady!” Uriphêl cries. Míriel glances over her shoulder, and sees the wave.

It grows from the Sea: never peaks, only crests. It rises higher and higher until it blots out the Sun.

From nearer, in Armenelos, rings a second shout of laughter from the Zigûrun.

Then the wave’s tip drops. It is sudden, and silent. From her mountainous height, Míriel can see it hit Andúnië.

The coastal city is gone in a breath. Then the rest of the wave crashes to shore, and with it sound returns.

A burst of white fire shoots into the sky: it comes from somewhere above their heads, the Hallow perhaps. Uriphêl loses her footing, and falls. Míriel hears her screams all the way down to the rocks at the foot of the mountain.

Then the remains of the wave claw up the countryside with uncanny speed, swallowing leagues by the minute ‘til they pour into Armenelos.

From over the Sea comes the roar of the storm, and from Armenelos itself rise the screams of its people, silencing one by one. Above the screams rears the tarnished silver roof of the Zigurun’s temple, and above that roof stands the Zigûrun himself, his head thrown back as he laughs his glee to the dark skies above him.

As Míriel watches, the temple is torn out from beneath him. The Zigûrun is pulled beneath the waters, and the waters rise to the foot of the Meneltarma itself.

There is a prayer in the back of Míriel’s mind. She bites it back. 

_Eru Ilúvatar, forgive us Thy servants our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us!_

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The waters rise and rise, slower and slower. Beneath the blood coating her soles, Míriel’s feet itch again with the need to run: now, though, there truly is nowhere left to go.

Míriel is alone in the world, and the world consists of the Hallow of Eru atop the Meneltarma.

She should fear that the ghost of the Zigûrun will surface beside her. She should fear that the skeletal hands of her people will rise from the waters lapping at her feet, and tug her to join them.

But she does not: indeed, she rather wishes they would. Let the ghosts come, the spirits, the haunters, the soulless – Míriel cannot be left so utterly forsaken!

Her tears are but a drop in the finally-stilled waters at her feet.

The low walls of the Hallow are utterly smooth, and she has naught for rope. She has neither blade nor poison, and her hardy Númenórean stock will keep her alive for many days without food, and despite cold and exposure. She cannot even weigh her body down long enough that the water will pull her under. And her last resort, prayer, has never worked yet.

And Míriel is trapped. Again.

Unless – perhaps she has not been praying correctly, after all. Perhaps – perhaps she was wrong, all this time.

Míriel will try anything.

“Lead us not into temptation,” she whispers. She has not voiced her prayers aloud for years. “And deliver us from evil: so be it! Our Lord and our God: Melkor Bauglir!”

The waters lap at her feet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to answer this prompt with Fingolfin vs. Morgoth or Glorfindel facing the Balrog. Then this idea bit.


	4. prompt 4: look to your kingdoms

Balan can feel eyes upon him. His skin prickles with unease at the sensation.

“Something watches us, from the trees,” he tells Hergoth softly. His second has joined him at the edge of the treeline: they speak softly, to avoid rousing fear, but the bustle and clamor of the people setting up camp behind them mask this conversation handily. “Can you see anything?”

They both pretend that the younger man’s eyes are simply sharper, and that Balan’s are not fading with age. So far the youngsters have been buying the pretense, but sooner or later something will slip, and Balan will find his leadership challenged by one of the younger folk. The only way to gain – or lose – the chieftainship is by might, and strong as Balan’s arm remains, his fading sight will hinder him in a direct match.

How stupid an excuse – how frail! – that he might be driven away from his people, out alone into the night, over something as small as a softening at the edges of his sight!

“I see nothing, my chief,” Hergoth replies, just as soft. He supports Balan still, for he lost his wife and child to the Shadow and has seen that Balan will do anything necessary to remove their people from the reach of evil. “Are you sure? We have left the danger of the Shadow behind us, haven’t we?” They had all felt the difference in the very air, once they had crossed the last range of mountains, blue-hued with fog and towering coniferous trees. It had been a joyous day.  

“I thought we had,” Balan admits. Now, though, the burning prickle of eyes seems to prove that dream less sure. “Have the men stand watch in pairs tonight, just to be safe.” If even Hergoth misbelieves his intuition, Balan can do no more.

“Best not,” Hergoth advises. “The young ones will balk at having their celebration interrupted, and too few will obey: you’ll have your challenge tonight, with everyone’s blood already high and looking for release.”

It is urgent that his second understands how close, how hot, those eyes in the night feel. Balan tries again.

“I tell you, Hergoth, something is watching us! We are not safe without a watch.” He knows it must be a trick of the now roaring fire behind them – _stupid, stupid fools! They do not know this land yet, why should they signal their location to all and sundry among its unknown inhabitants?_ – but for a moment Balan imagines there is a wraith, tall and pale, hovering just within the darkness beyond.

He blinks to clear the fire-light and when his gaze re-focuses the shade is gone.

“Trust me, my chief: I understand your desire for a watch,” Hergoth returns. But Balan can see that he is losing the interest of even his most loyal supporter: Hergoth is already half-turned to look at the growing camp behind them. “But it cannot be held by your people tonight. Let them fuck and frolic their wildness away, just for a few nights, and then we can bring in hunt-spoor or somesuch, remind them that their wise leader told them to remain wary and they did not. It will bolster your position, and besides: nothing would dare attack such a stiff-necked gathering tonight!”

Hergoth is looking toward the fire, shaking his head in tired amusement, as he says this: Balan cannot keep his gaze from the wood beyond.

As they descend into the camp to the triumphant shouts of a people recently freed from the Shadow, Balan resolves that watch _will_ be kept tonight. He will do it alone if he must.

~ ~ ~

The night is still once the feverish celebrations have died down and the fire is mostly burnt out.  It is deep into what would be – what should be – the second watch by the time the revelers succumb to their worn, drunken slumbers. 

The quiet makes Balan nervous.

In the eastern lands, a quiet night means that the Shadow’s beasts are stirring. On such nights, tents must be girded and the watch must be ready and armed. Otherwise babes go missing and their mothers are found missing tongues and breasts; bridegrooms vanish, and their brides remember their wedding nights but not their new lovers.

Here in the western lands, Balan’s experience actually puts him at a disadvantage. He knows too little of the local wildlife and weather, and so cannot tell whether the hush is typical. Is the lack of humming insect life normal, or should he be hearing more? Is that owl’s screech unnaturally low, or do the birds here simply hunt closer to the ground? Should he be hearing twigs breaking?

He jumps at every sound. His already-exhausted nerves sing with the strain.

At least the constant tension is good for something, though, Balan thinks. He may be standing watch alone, after a long and exhausting day already, but at least he can be sure that he will not fall asl-

 ~ ~ ~

A soft sound startles him awake. Balan’s eyes fly open in time to take in a fuzzy image of the wraith sliding past him and into the camp below. It stalks right up the embers of the earlier blaze, utterly fearless in the face of fire where its eastern brethren would have shrunk away from the flames that Men kindled.

Balan knows then that his people have made a grievous mistake in following him west. At least in the eastern lands, they already knew how to fight most of the Shadow’s many manifestations: here, even their greatest weapon, fire, seems powerless.  

He should shout a warning: rouse his people, and hope that they retain enough of their instinctual skill to repel the spirit before it kills too many. But Balan cannot move even so simple a muscle as his throat: he is transfixed, bespelled, unable to do more than watch in helpless fear as the wraith picks up a harp dropped by one of the revelers and turns the instrument over in its hands as if fascinated by its design.

A curious touch to the catgut strings wrenches a discordant screech from the harp. The wraith drops the instrument and snarls. The harp lands amidst the embers, and the wraith crouches over it, head peering side to side, as Balan’s people roar to confused consciousness around it.

They will all die, now. Balan only wishes there were some way to warn those left in the east.

 _Look to your kingdoms,_ he would tell them: _your people, your souls! The western lands are not free of the Shadow: indeed, It only seems fairer here!_

As his people scramble from their bed rolls and call out to each other in fear, the wraith folds its legs and drops, gracefully, to a seated position beside the remains of the fire. Plucking the harp delicately from the embers with unnerving delicacy, the spirit clutches the instrument to its chest and leans forward to breathe upon the embers. As the flames whisper back to life, the wraith leans back again as if satisfied, and the fire, leaping with new vigor, lends odd shadows to its angled face.

Balan’s sight is still clear enough to see that its eyes are the grey of a death-shroud and its hair is the gold of a pyre. As if noticing his regard, the wraith looks up and straight into his eyes, baring its teeth.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language notes:  
> \- Balan is Beor's original name; "Beor" actually means "servant" or "vassal" in his native language. Make of that what you will. . .


	5. prompt 5: something wicked this way comes

“You must realize that I will not live in Angband,” Turin tells his guard cheerfully.

The brutish orc doesn’t answer – not that he expected it to – but by this point, Turin’s options are few. Annoy the guards, talk to himself, or scream at the dour skies: anything to keep himself from actually thinking about his impending fate. For his captors have been very clear: Turin is to be taken before Morgoth himself.

He would pray, if he thought anyone still cared to hear him. And he cannot actually _stop_ thinking about what is to come.

His family is most definitely cursed.

“My failure to live in Angband will occur for one of any number of reasons.” Lifting his manacled hands, Turin begins counting the most pressing off on his stiff fingers. The first is his forefinger. “The first possibility? I step inside once and poof! that’s it. His Supreme Darkness will crush my head like a bug, and my spirit shall fly moaning to Mandos complaining of violated guest-right.”

He’s heard that talking about one’s fears helps. This probably wasn’t what Forweg had been thinking of, of course. Come to think of it, actually, the now-departed bandit had probably been offering him a tumble, not an actual talk.

Men. Turin despises them.

“The second? I’d actually end up _outside_ Angband. His Moodiness will be so pleased at collecting the full, matched set that he will chain me up beside my father, and together Hurin and I will watch the world go to hell.” Noticing that this option puts up his middle finger, Turin grins at his guard. “Ah yes, and in this scenario, His Angst-ridden Highness probably sodomizes us in turn. Like I said – matching set.”

Turin awards himself a mental point when the orc winces.

“Is it the buggery that displeases you, or the fact that it would be your master doing it? I hope it’s the second: anal intercourse can be most enjoyable with the right partner. So, the second then. Morgoth’s supposed to be stuck in one shape, isn’t he? Ai. What if it’s, you know, a limp one? No one in his right mind could enjoy that. Says a lot about his lieutenant, I suppose. Deprivation makes you grateful for whatever you can get, eh?”

And there’s a second point for Turin: the orc’s eyes widen beneath its helmet.

“But I digress: we’re here to talk about me, not about your questionable general and his even more questionable life choices. So, third reason I wouldn’t live in Angband-“

“Izzat y’ won’t make it that far,” growls a voice behind him. “We toss you offa cliff and leave y’ t’ rot.”

“A new player!” Turin cries gleefully, twisting in his chains to try and see who has spoken. He cannot move far enough. “I was going to say that I throw _myself_ off a cliff, but your option does give me a little moral high ground to work with. I like it! Can we try that one?”

The voice snarls as its owner stalks around him, and Turin can now see that it’s one of the motley group’s captains. “No. Shuttup.”

“But captain,” Turin protests. He hears an odd note seep into his own voice. It could be mocking; it could be pleading; it could be both. “I’m running out of options here. Why, I have more fingers than options. I could be eaten by one of your wargs, or I could be stoned by one of your minions. I could fling myself off a cliff or you could fling me off a cliff, and for good measure, throw yourself as well. Or – oh! Do you have a spare dragon about? I hear that they can bewitch Men. Let’s test that one out, eh? Must be a superb battle tactic. Have your wyrm spell me into walking off a cliff.”

The orc-captain doesn’t blink an eye. “Ain’t gotta a dragon, and you ain’t dyin’.”

“Yes, I am,” Turin said brightly. “I don’t think you’ve been listening, have you? I told you: I’m not going to live in Angband.”

A great weight smashes into the back of his head, and Turin knows no more.

~ ~ ~

It is dark when his senses return. But at least they do return, and they are working well: Turin has been woken by a blade being stuck into his foot. There is little light – it is night by this point, and storm-clouds block all but the slightest slivers of moon – but even so, Turin can see that someone is standing over him with a sword.

“Idiots,” Turin says grumpily. “It may be different for you orcs, but among Men, a wound to the foot is not fatal. It’s not even sporting. How am I supposed to get to that cliff if you leave me unable to walk?”

“Shhhh!” his assailant whispers. Turin’s blood drips from the tip of the blade.

“You shh!” Turin cries. _Finally_ someone plays the game with him! “What’s this, a stab at how formulaic we can be? It is a dark and stormy night, and my captor menaces my virtue with his mighty sword. Save us, o Valar!”

“ _Son_ of _Hurin_ ,” his assailant grunts.  

“Officer, I know that man!” Turin laughs, raising his hands as if to point away amongst the trees.

Then he notices something important: he _can_ point. His hands are free. Some idiot has actually removed the manacles.

“Oh, _that_ was a mistake,” he says softly.

It is the work of a moment to wrestle himself upright and throw his body atop his assailant. They both go down, but Turin maneuvers himself so that his assailant takes the brunt of the landing: its back may even break upon the stones. Breath knocked out of it, the orc barely fights, probably stunned by the unlikeliness of the attack. Even in the great darkness, Turin is easily able to lay hands on the sword he was just threatened with.

“Turin?”

“Still here, sweetheart,” Turin says gravely. “Though I know the hit went to your head when you don’t even remember who is besting you.”  

“I-“

Straddling his stunned opponent, his booted toes digging into the dirt as he presses down with all of his  weight, Turin smashes the sword’s pommel into the orc’s head.

The creature howls and thrashes beneath him. He still has no light to work by, but he cannot miss the crunch of bone or the splatter of blood upon his face. It is hot and sweet: he licks away a drop, grinning, and smashes down again.

The orc mewls, but it does not howl again.  

Turin scoots back along its body and, re-adjusting his grip, stabs down. He cannot see what he has hit, but the amount of warm blood seeping up into the seat of his pants would seem to indicate the stomach area.

A prolonged, messy death. Perfect, for Turin has just realized what he has done.

He knows this sword’s hilt. It is Anglachel. Some fool orc thought to kill Turin with his dead lover’s own sword.

The orc’s breath has settled into sucking gasps.

“There is playing the game, and then there is cheating,” Turin informs the creature he is still straddling. “But never mind. Either way now, I win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I- yeah, I'm sorry.


	6. prompt 6: back hand of a god

For the first time since their birth, her children do not answer her call. Their forms, twisted and scorched, still stand before her, but her beautiful twins – their spirits, their _selves_ – are simply gone.

Kementári does not understand how this can be.

She runs a trembling tendril along her daughter’s ashy lower limbs, but Laurelin’s body shrivels further at the slightest touch. Her bark sloughs, and Kementári withdraws the inquiring tendril in horror as the bough she had touched simply snaps and falls. As she turns to Telperion, Yavanna’s roots threaten to sink into the ashy sludge that Ezellohar has become: the very ground beneath the god and her children has been both charred and liquefied.

Telperion’s branches are as empty as his sister’s. Kementári does not even try to touch his still shell.

She glides from the Mound without looking back. Her roots churn the earth below her with more than their usual speed and efficiency.

So. This is what Námo and Manwë have been on about, that a spirit might be sent from its body against its will. Kementári sees nothing portentous or poetic about this thing ‘death.’

Melegor has destroyed her children: her mightiest works, her greatest joy, the lights of Valinor.

No how or why or when will stay her wrath.

Her brothers and sisters seem to sense this, for none argue when Kementári slides into their midst and demands that they summon the Eldarin craftsman to the Máhanaxar.

They even let her question him first.

 _Your little jewels_ , she asks the Elda. _You took some of my children into them?_

To his credit, the Elda barely hesitates. Some creatures are so touchy about the way she speaks of the Trees. “Of a sort, Lady Yavanna. I drew inspiration from the Trees, certainly, but my Silmarilli also bear a touch of light from both Laurelin and Telperion.”

 _I must have them_ , she says.

“You would demand the works of my soul’s labor?” he cries.

_My children are gone. There is nothing I would not demand._

“Still my answer is no,” he says proudly. “The Silmarilli are like my children too, and already a god has demanded them of me.”

He need not clarify: she knows who it must have been. _It was Melegor, was it not?_

“It was,” the Elda confirms, his animal face twisting in confusion.

Kementári’s foliage shivers. _This deed is his too_.

 

For an animal, the Elda shows refreshing respect. “And for that, I am sorrier than I can say,” he says quietly. “But you ask too much of me, Lady.”

Tendrils of ivy and manoranjini rise from the ground. Their flowers are bright and their grip is strong.

“I am sorry for your loss, but I will not give up the Silmarilli,” the Elda repeats. He does not look to her or her vines in fear, but faces her with his head held high. “And should you restrain me, Lady, I will know then that all of the gods are alike in their disregard for us.” 

As if she cares what he thinks of the gods when her children, her precious children, are dead. . .

Then the messengers arrive with news of Melegor’s latest misdeeds.

In the clamor of her siblings’ tantrums and fears, the Elda turns back to Kementári “Help me.”

Your seeder is dead. I can do nothing to change that.

“I will give you the Silmarilli,” the Elda promises. His face has grown wild, overgrown with thorny emotions. “If you will help me to hunt down this Moringotto.”

Kementári’s boughs rattle together. Her roots thresh the dirt beneath her.

 _We will hunt together_ , she tells the Elda.

His grin mirrors the sharpness of the thorns that spring from her highest branches.


	7. prompt 7: free choice

She wakes to find herself surrounded.

She is lying on the ground; she smells of her own blood, and a finger to her temple comes away sticky with gore. It is only reasonable to assume that those who crouch above her, murmuring to one another as they plaster her body with pastes, are at fault for this.

She kicks out, and then scratches, and bites, as best she is able in her weakened state. They seem surprised by her ferocity at first, but they recover quickly. One pins her legs down, and two more take an arm apiece, a fourth crouching at her head to cradle her skull in great, warm hands.

There are other bodies on the ground around them, but her rescuers tend only to her. She does not recognize any of them, the living _or_ the dead. But her gaolers all babble at her, and if it is meant to sooth her, it fails: she cannot understand a word.

She screams once, and then again, and again, thrashing in their gentle restraints. She is not afraid; she is not even defiant. She knows nothing to fear; she has nothing to defy.

This is why she screams, in fact. She knows nothing. She has nothing.

And she does not know why.

One of her healers smooths a gentle hand over her forehead, murmuring something in a tongue she does not know, and her sight goes dark.

~ ~ ~

When she wakes again, she knows that they have moved her. A pallet of soft skins and rags lies beneath her; a tent stretches above her head. She can hear the bustle and cries of a camp outside.

Only one of her rescuers remains with her. He holds a skin of water to her lips, but aside from this, remains a reassuring distance away.

“Fûth?”

“Mae g'ovannen?” she tries. He bares his teeth as if pleased she speaks, but shakes his head: he does not understand her tongue.

That is for the better, perhaps: the words come from her mouth, but she finds she does not know them. Perhaps it is not her tongue, then.

She tries again. “Pedathanc hi sui vellyn?” Again the phrase comes readily; again it is apparently a learned response. The words are devoid of meaning.

His teeth show more freely; he shakes his head again. She sits, carefully, and he scoots back to allow her space.

After a few moments of silence, he gives a guttural bark of laughter and taps himself on the chest. “Anghâsh.” She watches, warily, as he reaches toward her. He stops well shy of touching her, watching for any reaction, and she decides that she likes the sign of respect. She does not stop him when he then reaches further, tapping her briefly between the breasts and inclining his head as if waiting for a matching sound.

When she does nothing, he repeats the set. Tapping himself, he says “Anghâsh”; reaching out and tapping her, he is silent.

She simply watches. Eventually, he bares his teeth again and, collecting his legs beneath him, stands. He holds a hand down to her.

She looks to it, and then to him, in confusion. There – is nothing in it? Is she meant to lick it?

He snorts. Crouching beside her, he places his hand atop hers and grips it – gently, so gently! She watches, fascinated, as he stands again: this time, his hand and its grip draw her arm up along with him.

It was his name, of course, she realizes later: he was asking for her name. She lies alone in the darkness of the tent and cannot recall it.

When he returns the next morning and repeats what she now knows is a question, she shakes her head. His brow wrinkles, but eventually he pronounces “Dushûrz.”

If this is her new name – or else the name she once had, and has somehow forgotten – she quite likes it.

~ ~ ~

More wakings and sleepings follow, many more, and all so much better than those first.

Dushûrz does not fully regain her grasp of her people’s tongue, but she re-learns enough of its basics that she can give orders and draw up supply lists and curse out new recruits again. How good it feels to return to the work of keeping her people safe!

Anghâsh beams with pride when she begins to organize the patrols that constantly circle the borders of her people’s territory, ever watchful for the invading Albai from across the river; he laughs with joy when she claims she is ready to lead a patrol again herself. Eventually – and after much elbowing and prompting from her clanmates – Dushûrz recognizes this admiration for the mute longing that it is, and she takes Anghâsh as her mate. He is eager, so very eager, that first night and every night after, and together they discover that she is a very talented lover, though she had no mate before.

Dushûrz also finds, one day, that she anticipates having children by Anghâsh. Not now, and not soon, but – someday. Motherhood – is not something she ever thought she would want, but in this new prosperity, with a loving mate, it is something that she can picture for herself for the first time.

 Some memory seems to glitter at this thought, but Dushûrz is not quick enough to grasp it before it vanishes again. She shrugs philosophically at the non-loss.

~ ~ ~

The ambush, when it comes, is swift and sudden and terrible. Their camp, just shaking off its winter lethargy, is not prepared for the ferocity of the attack, and Dushûrz’s warriors, still shaky with sleep, are mown down by the Albai with their tamed horses and their metal carapaces of armor.

Surrounded by the blood and screams of her people and the fires consuming their tents, Dushûrz does not regret that she will die, exactly. That is something her people must come to grips with, early on, and Dushûrz has: twice, in fact, since her odd loss of memory so many years past. She does regret that Anghâsh must die, though, and she snarls as they are encircled by the Albai’s riders.

Anghâsh, the loving fool, tries to watch for her instead of guarding himself, and too soon he falls, speared in the back by a wild-eyed Albai with sorcerous dark hair. She snarls as the Albai throws himself from his horse, settling into a fighting crouch as he steps toward her.

“Celebrian?”

Her enemy’s voice is loud and shrill, and Dushûrz snarls. She may have accepted her own fate, but she vows that she will kill the Albai who has slain her mate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misc. language notes, as always:  
> \- Anghâsh (n., 'forge')  
> \- Dushûrz (adj., 'of magic')  
> \- fûth (v., 'awake')  
> \- Albai (n., early canonical orcish word for Elves collectively)
> 
> aaaand the one-stop shop for all your Black Speech needs:  
> http://thelandofshadow.com/mordorgate/darkdownloads/blackspeech/BS-A-.htm


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